


Kryptonite

by sidewinder



Category: Foo Fighters, The Police (Band)
Genre: Community: slashthedrabble, Hangover, M/M, Morning After
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-10 22:43:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17434865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidewinder/pseuds/sidewinder
Summary: Stewart has just one mortal weakness.





	Kryptonite

**Author's Note:**

> Written for slashthedrabble's prompt #511: Hungover.

Waking up with a raging hangover wasn’t a new experience for Stewart.

Indeed, after over forty years of living the rock-and-roll life, neither was waking up to find an unexpected companion sharing his bed—and not remembering how either of them had gotten there.

What _was_ unexpected, and new, was the fall of familiar long, blond hair over the naked, muscular back turned to him. And the tattoo of a soaring hawk on the bare left upper arm, exposed in the too-bright light of day, which left no doubt regarding who was sleeping beside him.

Unexpected, yes. But not at all unwelcome. Stewart only wished he could remember more about how it had happened.

Scattered images started to come to him, hazily, through the throbbing in his skull that pounded like a wobbly bass drum in need of tuning. Taylor showing up for an afternoon jam session with a few of Stewart’s other buddies. Taylor’s gift to him: an expensive bottle of tequila he’d brought back from Mexico, after a recent Foos gig there.

The bottle was meant for Stewart’s special collection, to savor on some future occasion. But instead, he groggily recalled, it never made it to the liquor cabinet. Taylor had suggested he give it a taste, after the others had left, when they were both sweaty and spent yet energized and feeling high from an afternoon pounding the drums and making joyous noise.

Taylor didn’t drink. Stewart must have drunk enough for both of them. And somehow, he began to recall as the brain fog thinned, they’d then ended up in his bedroom, making noise related to a completely different kind of joyous pounding.

Or so all evidence clearly implied.

He reached over for that bare arm peeking out from the covers, seeking reassurance that the vision before him was real. Taylor eventually stirred and rolled over to face him, a cautious —if mischievous—smile on his lips.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself. So how’d we end up here?” Stewart asked.

Taylor chuckled. “You asked me if I was plying you with alcohol to have my wicked way with you, since I know tequila is your kryptonite. I asked if you finally wanted to find out just how wicked I could get.”

“Taking advantage of your elders is _extremely_ unsportsmanlike.”

“Taking advantage, or finally getting you to loosen up enough to go for what you want? ’Cause damn…” Taylor yawned and stretched, the languid movement triggering a spark of desire within Stewart’s otherwise sluggish body, “…did you ever go for it.”

“Wish I could remember _that_.”

“I’ll be glad to give you the replay,” Taylor teased, running a hand through Stewart’s hair. “Though you look like you could use an aspirin and some coffee first.”

“Aspirin, yes. And water, if you don’t mind.”

“Be right back.”

Stewart watched Taylor’s lithe body slip out of bed, to the bathroom, and he sighed. Happily.

And he realized it wasn’t tequila that was his kryptonite. It was a drummer named Taylor Hawkins.

**Author's Note:**

> ...And out of nowhere, I'm back to being completely obsessed with these guys & these bands again! I'm not sure where exactly the sudden (re)inspiration is coming from but I'll gladly take it since I spent most of 2018 suffering massive writer's block. I'm currently working on some of my older, longer, WIPs for them so we'll see if any are soon to be rescued from the abandoned pile.


End file.
